


Equal Forces

by stardust_made



Series: The Jealousy Series [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five times John was jealous and one time he did something about it." This is the one time. A late night at Baker Street. The tenson has built to its breaking point and the invisible line that connects Sherlock and John is taut like an overstretched violin string.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal Forces

**Author's Note:**

> I posted part five, called "Close the Door" yesterday, but forgot to tag it that it was part of this series!

  
John loved Baker Street more than any other place he’d ever lived in. It was great in an objective way, but that wasn’t it. He didn’t just love his home—with Baker Street, he loved _being_ home.

Tonight was one of those nights when he experienced such content that if he was the type, he would have poised himself by the window, placed one hand on his chest, extended the other, and burst into poetry. As it was, he just shuffled his chair closer to the fireplace and stretched his legs, giving a little growling sound, then turned the next page of his book. He was looking at one, rather than reading it—it was monstrous in size and absolutely brilliant: “The Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker”. Ironically, the first drawing his eyes fell on was that of a couple in front of a fireplace.

John was glad he’d spent the time to make the fireplace work properly. Just the smell of it made winter something to look forward to. It was mid-November and for the first time in years London had an honest to God fog. Nothing could be seen outside but the random spots of lit-up windows across the street: yellow, vaguely shaped, slightly surreal, like van Gogh’s starry nights. John might have been the victim of his flight of fancy but after that association the colours of the fire seemed even more vibrant, and the play of the flames more enticing.

His eyes lifted to the chair across and he caught Sherlock looking at him. He must have watched him for a while—John didn’t know for how long, but the last time he checked Sherlock had been in the exact same position: sitting sideways in his chair, legs across the armrest, his feet gently swinging in the air—closer to the fire, then back, closer, back. His head, however, had been fully turned to the left to face John and so it still was. John was grateful that he'd only put his lamp on, while the rest of the room was lit by the glow from the fireplace. He didn’t fancy Sherlock reading too much into the flush John was acquiring just by holding his prolonged gaze in silence.

It was such an indescribable feeling. Was it pleasurable discomfort or was it sweet pain? John was its captive now, fully and irreversibly. Every moment of subdued intimacy between him and Sherlock made his stomach throb, the sensation leaking right into his belly, then pooling further down. His hand was perpetually suspended, just like now, governed by two forces of equal strength. One pushed the hand forward—to caress the milky skin on Sherlock’s neck, to place the tips of his fingers in the little hollow of Sherlock’s breastbone and feel his heartbeat, to touch the other hollow, the tiny slope between Sherlock’s nose and the tip of his upper lip. And the opposite force, the one that pulled his hand back and kept it locked in the grip of fear that if John only reached out, he’d shatter through the invisible but solid wall of their friendship.

He swallowed with effort and lowered his head to the book’s pages. He detected no movement from Sherlock’s chair, no change—Sherlock was still watching him. John tried to look at the drawings but all he saw in his mind’s eye was the idle droop of Sherlock’s mouth and his pale eyes, flickering with the light of the fireplace. It made Sherlock’s eyelashes almost colourless—the image hit John so palpably, he felt his whole body contract with a surge of desire and awe. He swallowed again and bowed his head lower. God, he hadn’t had it so bad for anyone, ever.

It was useless to try to determine how it had come to this. John didn’t kid himself that there would be a big neon sign “Feelings for Sherlock start here”, conveniently positioned in his mental space. There’d been incidents, of course. He was pretty sure that noticing your flatmate’s arse wasn’t quite in the spirit of traditional camaraderie. Or that time when John thought Sherlock was having sex with another man in his bedroom. The fact that there had been an emphasis on the word “another” was ridiculously telling. As was John knocking down a man for touching and kissing Sherlock... John shuffled in his seat at the memory, and considered taking off his shirt—he was going to catch fire himself if he kept reddening like that. But for all the two weeks that had passed since that incident it was still too embarrassing to recall.

It wasn’t just attraction, of course. John’s feelings for Sherlock were everything associated with this sort of thing, and then some more. But the attraction was the hardest one to manage; where all other feelings were fed in some roundabout, twisted way the attraction had been left out to implode in its inability to be consumed.

John was startled out of his ponderings by the rumble of Sherlock’s voice.

“Could you pass me the violin?” he said.

John lifted his eyes and saw Sherlock pointing at somewhere behind John’s chair. He turned to find both the instrument and its bow lying on the little Moroccan table. He could have stretched and reached them, but it was perilous—he stood up, picked them up, and handed them to Sherlock. Sherlock lifted his eyes right up to meet John’s. “Thanks,” he said. John nodded and went back to his chair.

He tried the book again, but he was too distracted now, so he closed it and cleared his throat.

“Are you going to play?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from his bow. “Are you asking or are you asking me to?”

“Erm, I don’t know actually,” John said honestly.

Sherlock’s lips quirked.

“Tell me when you figure it out.”

John’s lips followed Sherlock’s.

“Okay. I was just asking but now you mentioned it, I wouldn’t mind if you played something.”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment, then sniffed and nodded. “Give me a minute to check the violin. Something’s been off with it lately.” He swung his legs forward and sat in his chair properly. His attention returned to the bow. He placed it in his line of vision, perfectly horizontal, and squinted. His fingers then tapped the tip of it. His index finger swirled around it once, rubbed it, swirled again. John felt his nostrils twitch. Sherlock brought the tip to his eyes; confusion flickered across his features and he lowered the bow until the tip was directly in front of his lips. John held his breath. Sherlock lightly dragged the tip over his loosened bottom lip, then kept it pressed against it, forming a dip right in the middle. He lifted his eyes to meet John’s, held his gaze—then abruptly swished the bow in the air.

“It’s not the bow,” he said quietly.

John released his breath.

Sherlock lifted the violin and brought it close to his eyes. He examined its back for a long while. Eventually he placed the violin in his lap, face down, and lay both of his hands on the wood. They rested there, as if they were letting it get used to the unusual touch. John expected Sherlock’s fingers to start moving but in a few seconds Sherlock lifted them just an inch above the surface, while he kept the hills of his palms still on it. Really gently he started dragging the palms upwards, hands relaxed yet in perfect control. John watched the motion hypnotised. At long last Sherlock got to the top end of the violin’s body and his right hand’s fingers wrapped slowly around its neck. John’s mouth had watered and he dreaded swallowing, but not as much as he dreaded what might be coming next. His eyes could not detach from Sherlock’s closed fingers; John held his breath again—

—and Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin. He closed his eyes, making John feel strangely bereft. Sherlock’s face was a rare mixture between intense concentration and something hazy, almost dreamy. John watched his fingers trace the contour of the violin’s body, watched his chin softly rub its seat, watched his eyelids flutter with whatever divine visions this holy union produced behind them. Sherlock’s violin. Never touched with anything but utmost care; always placed carefully on safe surfaces; always polished, looked after, listened to within its last note, caressed, _played_.

This time John’s nostrils flared up. He stared at Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed, but now his fingers had moved to the pegs. He was holding one between his thumb and his forefinger and began to turn it. John watched the string attached to it tremble barely perceptibly—it could have been the play of light—but John didn’t really need to see. He knew the string was being stretched, pulled, its tautness reaching a breaking point and surely, surely it would snap—

John’s intake of breath was that of a man who had broken the surface of an icy lake after a deadly, deep dive. Sherlock’s eyes flew open instantly. John held them and got up. He closed the space between the two chairs and stood in front of Sherlock.

“Put the violin away,” he said.

Sherlock gingerly removed his chin from the chinrest and then placed the violin on the floor by the armchair, his gestures graceful and unhurried. He lifted his eyes to John again. John tilted his head and took him in, reeled in the sheer life-changing momentum of what he was about to do. Sherlock’s face changed, mirrored John’s perhaps, for there was the same marvel and panic—and need, bigger than any commanding forces.

“John,” Sherlock said, only the first letter of the name a sound.

John bent down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

He was met like an emperor—Sherlock’s full and supple lips parted immediately to let him in, and a quiet moan was the cry that hailed John's glory. John’s hand slid behind Sherlock’s head and supported his neck, held it neatly as a neckrest, while John moved to claim his throne, straddling Sherlock’s lap. Terrible tenderness rushed through him as he savoured Sherlock’s mouth and felt Sherlock’s lips move shyly, copying. But nature’s urgency was there, too, and John felt his hand tighten around Sherlock’s neck—he deepened the kiss and Sherlock's mouth opened, tongue brushing, swirling against John’s. John groaned and pressed Sherlock closer, ravished his mouth while his other hand stroked Sherlock’s face anywhere it found. He felt both of Sherlock’s hands weave around his body, hold onto him, and John pressed him closer still, until he could feel Sherlock's heart against his chest. His hands found Sherlock’s throat of their own accord. John opened his eyes and pulled away, watching Sherlock’s face come into focus, eyes still closed, mouth searching, lost. It took a second and Sherlock looked at him too, but it was a new Sherlock, a stranger, yet already the dearest, the closest, John’s only. John slid his hands down Sherlock’s throat until his thumbs brushed the little hollow of the breastbone. The divine rhythm of life danced frantic under them, infinitely more precious than anything John's ever touched.

“John,” Sherlock whispered and John’s eyes shot up to find Sherlock's gaze begging John's mouth.

This time it was all thick arousal; a sloppy, messy affair where teeth scraped, and lips sucked, bit, soothed. John could feel Sherlock’s erection pressed against his thigh. He shifted his hips, grabbing Sherlock’s hair for an anchor, and he grinded his own erection against his. Both gasped at the same time and their mouths lost contact—John started rolling his hips, each movement creating burning friction and more gasps, until they were just holding each other’s heads, breathing into each other’s mouths, bodies rhythmically rocking. It was both dangerously close and not enough—John needed Sherlock’s hand on him so much, the image of it alone made him let out a whimper. “Touch me,” he managed to say, voice breaking. “Please. Sherlock.”

He hadn’t even finished when Sherlock’s hand was already on his belt. John let his eyes collide with Sherlock’s bright and feverish ones. Deft fingers undid the button and opened the zip, pushed open the jeans and tugged at John’s boxer shorts. John's eyes dropped to his lap and were able to see why his body was raging so much. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around him with slick intent and started moving. John’s head fell back and he gaped against the ceiling, remained like that—a big, stupefied mass of pleasure. Sherlock managed only a few long, smooth strokes before John’s thrust became quicker, more shallow, inevitable. His whole body was tensing up as he pushed into that delicious, perfectly measured grip, until all too soon everything coalesced into whiteness that washed through John in waves and waves of purifying heat.

John’s head lolled forward eventually, tried to find its bearings, its purpose. It finally met something that kept it steady—the damp curls against John’s forehead told him where he was. Sherlock’s hands were still moving in John’s lap, his ministrations light and quick. John slowly opened his eyes and managed to straighten. Sherlock looked at him, his gaze uniquely discerning, but also open and inviting. John’s eyes fell to Sherlock's mouth; he lifted his hand, gently pushed his middle finger between his lips, and insinuated it between Sherlock's teeth. He ran the pad of his finger over the bottom ones; he could feel the gloss of the enamel, the rounded, scraping tips. John brought his lips down and replaced his finger, this time lightly running his tongue over the teeth. Sherlock shivered. His tongue flicked against John’s, but John just brushed his lips and pulled back.

“Shall we go to your bedroom?” he said. Sherlock nodded. John nodded back but didn’t move. He tilted his head again, studying Sherlock, who lifted his eyebrows, forming a devastatingly normal, inquisitive expression.

“You were going to kill me with your violin, you know that,” John said without reproach.

Some amusement shone on Sherlock's face. John lifted a hand.

"Don't try and make jokes about how that would go!" he warned, then added. "I mean it, though."

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Sorry. I had to.”

John frowned.

“How do you mean?”

Sherlock stayed quiet for a long moment until he finally sighed.

“I discovered that where it came to you, no circumstantial evidence and no deductions were ever going to be enough to make me, um…make a move." Sherlock lowered his head at the last sentence. "I had to try and make _you_ do it,” he finished, voice muffled against John's chest. John pressed his lips to the line where Sherlock’s hair parted. He knew what he’d just heard and emotion threatened to suffocate him.

“Sherlock,” he murmured against Sherlock’s hair, then stirred. “Bedroom.”

**Author's Note:**

> Original entry at my Livejournal [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/36025.html). If you enjoyed this series and feel so inclined, please drop me a line over there, but either way—thank you for reading!:)


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